With Ties
by BelieveItOrNot
Summary: When everything Bella hoped for in a future is no longer an option, she has to find a way to rise above. She learns that expectations are meaningless and that sometimes, a throw-away length of thread can hold more value than a diamond ring. A Light the Darkness Contest Entry. First Place Winner Public and Judges' Vote.


Contest entry for the Light The Darkness contest - First place public and judges' vote. ABadKitty, MariahJilE's, and Jadalulu's pick.

Thank you to the creators of this contest, without whom this story never would have been written. Thank you to the beatiful banner and blinkie makers: Twilly and RoseArcadia. Thank you to the judges and to all those who voted (and all those who are reading now. I've missed you guys!)

Congratulations to all the other entries!

Beta, and major supporter, pusher, hand-holder when I turned into a near cry-baby over this: thimbles

Disclaimer: The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.

**With Ties**

I step into my childhood home, stale and humid, weeks without tenants. My dad said he'd move back someday. I believed him, never thought I'd be the one moving back first.

Sweat gathers under my armpits and I remove my sweater, drop it to the floor. The door clicks closed behind me and Edward's hand meets the small of my back. He presses slightly before pulling away. My suitcase thumps as he sets it down.

Rubbing my sore upper arm, I can still feel his hand there, squeezing, his voice begging. His eyes. God, I don't want to see his eyes right now, dark and wet and pleading.

"Bella?" Edward's voice is gritty, like he hasn't swallowed in hours. "What - what's that?" He points at me and I follow the aim of his finger to the arm I'm rubbing. Light bruises.

"That's..."

"He hurt you?"

"No. I mean, yes, but he... he was... he was..."

He was my love. My first love. We were supposed to last, going to last. Unlike my parents. Unlike his. We'd promised each other. Vows. I drop into the sienna cushions of the old rattan couch. From the eighties, the same couch my dad's parents had given them as a wedding gift.

One tear. Then a second. And third.

I cover my eyes, hide the tears, but can't keep the regret from seeping into my voice. "I was never going to get divorced." I sob without meaning to, without wanting to, fighting every breath that catches, every tear. I force myself to stop. I try harder and swipe at my face with the backs of my thumbs, followed by the rest of my fingers.

I take a deep breath in and hold it for too long. A cough rumbles out of me, deep and raspy, like an old man choking on his past. Edward steps closer and when my coughing subsides, the tears gone, the house is silent again.

This is what it'll be like. My life. Silence.

"Say something," I say, my eyes on my feet. There are scuff marks on the toes of my shoes. Fill the silence.

"You can have the best intentions," he says. "You can't control the other person."

I look up at him and his eyes widen as if he's surprised he spoke. He has a square jaw and eyes that match the jade stone in the bracelet Emmett gave me. Last time I took it off, tucked it away in my jewelry box, I had not one inclination that I'd never wear it again.

"No guarantees." I nod. "Thank you."

His eyes narrow now, appearing darker, shadowed, and he tilts his head. "Nobody's worth it."

"What?"

"Nobody."

My lips tremor, tears threaten again.

"Maybe - maybe I should...?" He reaches behind him for the doorknob. "Or do you need, um, help with anything?"

"You can go. I'll be fine."

"All right, well, you've got my number."

"One of many."

"Right." He gives a quick shake of his head. "Sure, you've got your friends to help you through this. And your sisters."

He starts out the door.

"Maybe I don't need help." I stand and he looks back at me. "Through this."

"Maybe not."

"I'm not going to cry over him again." I don't know why I tell him this. Maybe so that it's out there, like a promise not only to myself but to the universe. Or maybe so that when he speaks to Emmett, he'll let him know that I'm okay. Strong. Moving forward.

He only nods and closes the door behind him.

And I'm alone.

...

In my lounge pants and tank top, I'd been the one to open the door, Emmett creating a racket trying to get his key in the lock, swearing.

"Hey, beautiful," Emmett had said, glassy eyes on mine. Edward wasn't looking at me, which wasn't out of the ordinary, only his shoulders were slumped and he was staring at the concrete stoop as if it held life's deepest secrets.

Both had their shirts untucked, wrinkled ends, sleeves rolled to their forearms. Emmett smiled with half-closed eyes.

"You're drunker than when I left," I said, but couldn't help smiling back.

"Nah, no, I'm not drunk. Am I drunk, Edward?"

"You're fucked up," Edward said under his breath, still eyeing that concrete.

I said hello to Edward, just to be polite. He nodded, and not even at me. He nodded at the ground. I rolled my eyes.

"Is he coming in?" I asked Emmett. If Edward couldn't be bothered to acknowledge me, why should I bother with common courtesy?

"He's not going where we're going." Emmett leaned in for a kiss, his big arms swallowing me.

"Don't do that, man," Edward said and Emmett shot a look at him.

"What? Kiss my _ wife_?"

"Come on, just sleep it off."

"What's going on?" I finally caught Edward's eyes before he averted them again.

"_He_ needs to sleep it off." Emmett pushed his way into the house.

"Something's going on." I followed him. "Something's weird."

"I'm drunk and I love you. That weird?" He placed his palm, warm and smooth, against my face. I tilted into his touch, moved his hand to kiss his fingers. I got a whiff of something. It smelled like... I was sure it was... A grotesque image flashed through my mind. Emmett and some other woman. I glanced at Edward whose gaze seemed glued to me now. I jerked Emmett's fingers closer to my nose.

"What?" he said, weak, like the word was clogging his throat. If I wasn't sure of it before, I was then. The sound of his voice, the look on his face. I gagged.

"Soap," I said, shoving his hand away. "Not enough of it."

"It's not," Emmett said. "I didn't.. We didn't..."

I nodded, my chin quivering. "I was there, you idiot. It was_ Leah's_ party."

I started toward the stairs.

Edward's low voice behind me. "You're the biggest motherfucking asshole I've ever known."

I rushed faster up the stairs, more images in my head, some blank-faced woman, some ugly woman, some beautiful woman. Someone else.

I pulled my suitcase from the top shelf of our closet and didn't bother looking at the clothes I stuffed into it. I shoved my feet into the first pair of flats I saw.

Emmett was standing in the doorway.

"Who was she? Do I know her?"

"No," he said fast. "I didn't fuck—I didn't sleep with her."

"I can't even - I can't _ think_ about what you did with her."

I zipped up my suitcase and shoved past Emmett.

"Baby," he said, grabbing my arm, clutching hard. "It was a slip-up. I was too drunk."

"You're sober enough to defend yourself, aren't you? Where was I when you were with her? Was it before I left? You weren't even around when I left. Were you with her?"

"It meant-"

"Nothing," I said, yanking my arm from his grasp. He stumbled back a few steps. "You're so original."

"I'm sorry." He wiped his eyes. "I mean I'm really fucking sorry."

"Too late."

"Don't go." He gripped my arm again, tighter this time, the same spot. "Bella. I love you."

I looked into his dark eyes. Eyes so dark they were almost black.

Did he want me to vomit on him? "This is how you treat love?"

"No." Tears trailed his cheeks.

"You're the biggest motherfucking asshole I've ever known."

He let go of me and I headed down the stairs. "I hope she was worth it!"

"We're not over," Emmett called from the top of the stairs. Edward, at the bottom, was looking up at me.

"We are so over we can't even see the fucking rainbow." I took pleasure in saying it even though I was looking at Edward when I said it and my heart was pounding in my throat. I tore my sweater from the coat stand, shoved my suitcase at Edward and said, "I need a ride."

...

I slip out to the backyard in my bare feet, welcoming the feeling of cool dirt under my soles and pebbles poking my skin because when I look down at my toes, they look far away, like my feet are there on the earth but I'm not. My sense of touch is all I have to remind me that I am there. That I am here.

I've talked to three people in two days and haven't stepped a foot outside until now.

Rose easily agreed to cover my shift yesterday. She's always been reliable in a pinch. I promised to work Labor Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas for her.

When I got off the phone with her, I dialed the rental agent to tell him to call ahead if he shows the house.

I thought about walking down the street to the Quick Mart for some food, but in this town people are always out, watering their plants, jogging, walking, living. I can't go unnoticed by neighbors. I ordered a pizza instead. All but one slice is sitting in the refrigerator now.

Beneath the old orange tree, I look up at its thin branches. It never flourished here, never produced oranges despite the gardener's warning that we'd have so many oranges our neighbors would beg us to stop dropping boxfuls off at their doorsteps.

"It's the soil," my dad said the day he gave up on the tree. "It's clay. No matter what I do, without a healthy foundation we can't expect much."

I stomp my faraway foot over the hard earth. I always thought maybe it wasn't the soil's fault. Other plants and trees have thrived in our yard. Maybe it was just a bad tree. The orange tree has hung on, though, through the years. Thin, spindly, never producing, but here. Alive.

Is that what I am now? Spindly, barely hanging on? My foundation shattered, unhealthy?

"Never get married," our mother had told us as she drove us to school, glancing at me, and then, in her rearview mirror, at my little sisters. "It only brings a person's selfishness to the surface. It never ends happy."

"Maybe because the happy ones don't end," I said, my arms folded across my chest, thirteen and idealistic.

And on my wedding day, I walked down the aisle a blushing bride, a smug bride, determined to prove my mother wrong and prove to my sisters that marriage does last.

Idealistic at thirteen, idealistic at twenty-five, and only now, at twenty-nine, do I understand that determination is not enough. Not one person's determination in a two-person marriage. Edward was right.

Edward. My mouth goes dry. He knew. At Leah's party, he knew before I left. He'd come up to me at the bar and I'd felt something was off.

"Bella," he said under the dim lights, squeezing his way between two guys to get to me. "Hey, you want a drink? What are you drinking?"

"No thanks. I'm on my way out." Emmett wanted to stay for the band's last set but I had an early morning the next day. "Some people work on Saturdays."

"Need a ride?"

"He said you were driving _him_ home." I looked over his shoulder, one then the other. "Where is he?"

"Yeah, I'll drive him. Here—" he put his hand on my back between my shoulder blades " —I'll walk you out."

As he guided me toward the door, I slipped him a frown, wondering where this sudden attentiveness was coming from. Maybe he was warming up to me. It only took him five years.

On my way out I hugged Leah and Alice goodbye. Leah tugged the ends of my hair and said she'd call me.

It was still warm outside.

I led Edward around the corner from the bar. Cars were practically stacked on top of each other when Emmett and I had arrived. We had to park way down the street in a residential neighborhood.

"What are you planning for tomorrow?" He knew I ran the entertainment and activities at The Palms assisted living home.

"Kids from a dance school. I always love that. And next week it's mini musicians."

"Ah, you could witness the next Jimi Hendrix."

"Hopefully without the drug problem."

Edward pointed across the street. A man was bent over scooping up his dog's poop as his little dog sat waiting. "You ever think that when dogs take a dump, their piles are bigger than their brains?"

I laughed and Edward smiled. But like all his smiles around me, it quickly faded to non-existent. All right, maybe he wasn't warming up to me. Maybe he was trying to, and failing. What the hell had I ever done to him?

"You don't have to walk me anymore. You can go back."

He stopped. "You sure?"

"Yep. Thanks for whatever this was." I strolled the rest of the way to my car alone. As I opened my door, I looked back at him, frozen in the same spot, watching me. I shook my head at him and climbed in my car.

I stand under the weak orange tree on unhealthy foundation and think, He knew.

"Bells?"

I turn toward my sister's voice, Lauren mostly inside the house, poking her head out the sliding glass door.

"Emmett called. He said you left him and came here. Your car's not in the driveway."

I couldn't drive that night. I raise my hand and smile just to keep the tears at bay. They burn there in my eye sockets and blur her all up.

"What happened?" She steps outside. Creased brow and crinkles at the edges of her eyes, she's looking at me like someone's died.

I shrug and shake my head. _What happened?_ My nose burns now. My throat, too. I touch it and say, "I'm done with him." As if I don't already feel it everywhere, I have to also feel the nasty pulsing of those words on my fingertips. I pull my hand away from my throat and rub my thumb over my fingers as if they're dirty and I can dust them off.

Lauren moves closer. I feel myself trembling all over, and it's not only due to my failed marriage, but because I'm failing my sisters as well. After our parents divorced it was up to me to show them that love can last, that it doesn't always break. I promised myself this every night I witnessed Lauren and Jessica crying, sharing a bed, refusing to leave each other—Lauren, mere inches taller than Jessica, cradling our youngest sister's head against her shoulder. For months after Mom left Dad this went on. I was going to show them how it could be. Better. The best.

Lauren reaches me and rests a hand on my shoulder, her head tilted. "How long are you staying here?"

"Just until..."

"Until you feel like it." She gives half a smile.

"Where's Jess?"

"The store. She wanted to come but couldn't get out of work. She asked me to give you a hug." Lauren stretches her arms toward me but I put a hand up, step back.

"Not - not yet."

She seems to search my eyes. I can still see the little girl she used to be. She and Jess. The three of us, dark-haired, dark-eyed girls. We were like cats, me—the oldest by five years—the mama kitty in front, Lauren holding my tail, little Jessica holding hers, bringing up the rear.

I'm the only one with dark hair now. Lauren went auburn like our mom, Jess went almost blonde. We hardly look like sisters anymore.

"How about some lunch? Got any food?"

"Just day old pizza."

"Perfect." She pulls me along as she heads back inside. On the doormat, I wipe dirt off my bare feet.

I relax when she doesn't press me for specifics about Emmett. In this moment, nothing seems more humiliating than explaining it.

After lunch, Lauren leaves, only to return six hours later with Jess at her side.

"We're taking you out," Lauren says.

"I'm not going out." I blow messy hair from my eyes. They look as if they've been getting ready for a night out since last Tuesday. I look—-and feel—like I haven't showered in just as long.

"We're not taking no for an answer," Jessica says. They're doing it again, talking in "we," as if the two of them are one, incapable of separate thought and action.

"Yeah," says Lauren. "Maybe you're used to bossing us around but now it's your turn."

"You mean your turn?" I wiggle a finger between them just like they're one. "Your turn to boss me around?"

"That's exactly what we mean. Now, go get dressed." Jessica turns me around and gives my shoulder a light shove in the direction of the stairs.

...

Leah meets us at the restaurant, a flowing white dress against her tan skin, her black hair cropped to her chin. The sight of her makes me feel frumpy in my jeans. Before I can protest, she swoops me into her arms like she has the wings of a swan and I find myself holding her tight and long.

We're guided to a round table with a bottle of wine sitting on ice waiting for us. Here is where they press me for details. Well, Leah does.

I shake my head.

"Was it... did he?" Leah's eyes go round and crazy. "Did that fucker...?"

"Not here," I whisper.

Minutes go by, nobody says anything and I look at nobody.

"At least no kids were involved," Leah says.

Was there any childless couple in the world going through a divorce who were not offered that sentiment as a positive thing to cling to?

It was only by coincidence that we didn't have kids. It wasn't because we hadn't wanted them. And it was only that we didn't have real kids. We had imagined kids. The kids we thought about when we'd chosen our house, when we'd bought my car, when Emmett talked about the son he'd take fishing someday.

We had heart kids and soul kids. But now any son Emmett taught to fish would have a mother who wasn't me.

All these little memories that could have been would now never be. How to let go of those? How to let go of shared dreams?

I shake my head, fighting tears. Leah squeezes my hand and apologizes.

Conversation lightens up after that, all heaviness avoided. When Lauren asks for the bill, our server informs us that it's been taken care of.

"By whom?" Leah asks, and Jessica mimics her "whom," a word she'd never say. Lauren elbows her. If he were here, Emmett, Contemporary Lit. professor and grammar enthusiast, might have dropped a mini-lecture on Jessica.

Our server gestures toward a table at the back of the restaurant.

Golden-brown hair, strong brow. I tilt to the right for a clearer view.

Edward? I hadn't noticed him. And now I can't stop noticing him. I dab my lips with my napkin and excuse myself.

He's holding a wine glass to his mouth when I approach his table.

He turns away from the woman he's dining with. "Bella." The way he says my name, barely any voice in the end. Not much more than a whisper on the "a." Every time. "It's good to see you."

I'm sure my eyes widen. In all the years I've known him, he has not once said that to me.

"Thank you. For dinner."

He sits up a little straighter and sets his glass down without pulling his eyes from mine. "You're welcome."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know."

"There are four of us. That's..." My gaze sweeps the floor. "Too much."

"It's nothing." He leans back in his seat. "My buddy owns the place. Silent partner." He taps his chest.

"Really?"

He nods once. I thank him again and we stare at each other. I fidget with my fingers. This is a new side to him. I didn't know he could be as kind as he's been.

He clears his throat and introduces me to his date. Her blonde hair is in a tight braid that begins on one side, crosses the back of her head and slinks down over her opposite shoulder. She's gorgeous.

Kate reaches out to shake my hand. "He's just lazy," she says with a scrunch of her nose in his direction—teasing. "He invests what money he has so someday he won't have to work for a living."

"True," Edward says and raises his glass to me.

More than just a date, then. I let them get on with their meal, thanking him one last time.

...

Edward calls me regularly. "Just checking in with you," he says, low and deep, usually to my voicemail.

It's been nearly a month since I left my adult home for my childhood home when Edward calls again, not to check in but to inform me that Emmett's moved out. He asks if I need anything and I tell him I could use a ride home. He's sliding my suitcase into the back of his truck fifteen minutes later.

Emmett's letting me have the house. After he admitted over the phone that there had been other _slip-ups_, I told him I wanted the house, he should be the one to go, and he agreed.

He apologized. Over and over he apologized._ I didn't mean to hurt you_, he said. _Never wanted to hurt you, Bella_.

"You wouldn't have hurt me if I never found out, right?"

He didn't beg for me to come back to him. Somewhere within the span of a few weeks, he'd accepted that it was over between us.

"I'm not proud of myself. I should've been better. You deserved better."

"Yes, I did. I deserved a hundred times better."

Out Edward's window a dog, tied to a tree, is lying in grass. "It's true of men, too," I say.

"What?"

"Their dump piles are bigger than their brains."

He laughs, just a breath out his nose.

"I'm right," I say.

"I know you are."

I decline his offer to walk me to the front door and lug my suitcase up to the house myself. I toss my keys into the little bowl on the console table and drop my suitcase by my feet with a thud. I hadn't felt the weight of it the night I left. It could have been a feather.

The framed wedding photo that used to sit on this table is gone, dust shaping its old outline. It was the photo of Emmett kissing my knuckles.

The photo on the wall at my eye level still hangs. The one of Emmett and the groomsmen lifting me. The photographer called that the mermaid pose. Edward was holding my ankles. Neither one of us would have guessed then that four years later he'd be helping me out after his best friend cheated on me. He was so cold to me at my wedding, Edward. I was sure he was disappointed in Emmett's choice. Now, I'm not so sure what or who he is exactly. Emmett's friend. My friend? It can't be both, I decide.

I touch the flower I was wearing on the side of my head in the photo, the flower Emmett's sister slipped between strands of my hair as I lay on my side across the arms of five men. Alice. I guess he gets to keep her.

I take the frame off the wall and stroll with it into the living room.

Emmett left gaps all over the house. Chunks of my life gone. Whoosh. A tornado touched down and snatched it all away.

His office where he worked on everything for his literature courses is completely cleaned out.

In the living room, he left a donut shaped mark in the carpet where his chair used to sit. A hole in the cabinets where books he could never get rid of once gathered dust. A ghostly emptiness in the bedroom where our bed used to be. I told him to take it, and the living room sofa. Too many memories of our naked bodies coming together. Thinking about it makes me shudder. Until I get a new bed, I'll sleep in the guest room.

I look down at my hand. I'm still holding the wedding picture. I tuck it into one of Emmett's now empty drawers. Maybe I'll get rid of it, maybe I'll keep it. But for now, it won't reside anywhere I might accidentally catch a glimpse of it.

I close the drawer, listen to the smooth roll. I still can't believe this is my life, empty spaces, empty drawers, me closing a wedding picture away only to hide it from myself.

I think I'll wake up soon, warm in my bed, Emmett beside me.

I shudder. I need a shower.

I turn the water on as hot as I can stand it so that it will almost burn, and take my time removing my clothing

Before the bathroom is completely fogged over, I spy my naked image in the mirror. I gaze at myself straight on. The last time I examined myself this closely was the night before my wedding. My boobs hang slightly lower now. My waist somewhat fuller. I turn to the side, check out the roundness in my stomach and I suck it in. My boobs lift. Would I go topless on a Spanish beach now as I had on my honeymoon? I'm not so sure.

I turn so I'm straight on again and stare into my own eyes, watching myself dissolve into the fog. I clear a large circle in the mirror with the side of my fist.

"Who said you were immune to betrayal and heartache?" How arrogant.

The fog takes over again and all I see is a blob of brown and pink. I tug the shower door open and step in.

..

I file for divorce.

Ghosts swarm my past. My future is blurred and bent. I'm the crooked man walking a crooked mile. I'm the lost cat trying to sniff my way home.

I take the next three days off work.

People call me. My mom, my dad, my sisters, Edward, Leah, Alice.

"I'm sorry," Alice says in a message just like the rest had, but hers means something different. And the sound of her voice, like it's knotted up with guilt, leads me to believe she knew the truth about Emmett.

They all ask me to call back. I don't call a single one.

On Friday I'm summoned to my boss' office and written up for not having a doctor's note. I have divorce papers but don't want to offer those up.

Across her desk Carmen slides another paper for me to scribble my signature on. "I know you've been going through a difficult time, but we need a person in your position here. Rose can't do it all. We've had to call in subs and if they can't show up, then what? Do we need to hire someone else?"

Okay, she didn't ask if she needed to fire me, but it was pretty darn close.

I study my hands. The red color on my nails is chipped all over, completely gone on my pinky and ring finger.

"I won't miss another day."

Rose stops me in the hall. "I tried to get her to give you more time."

"No, no, I get it. I'd be fed up with me, too."

"I really have no problem taking your shifts, but I can't work seven days a week."

"Of course not."

"I'm really sorry, Bella."

"Rose, it's me, not you. I'm sorry you're caught in the middle."

She hugs me and we leave it at that.

...

My new bed is delivered. It's metal with tall posts, and strong. I chose the memory foam mattress even though it was well over my budget, just because I liked its name and the idea of my body, the shape of me, being remembered.

I top the bed with new sheets, new pillows, and a new comforter.

I still don't have a sofa in the living room, and after this bed purchase, I won't be able to afford one until next month.

At least my bedroom no longer has a gaping hole in it.

I lie on my back across the cool comforter and stare at my ceiling. Questions have been jabbing at me and I'm ready for answers. Knowing he has them, I ask Edward to come over.

"I've been trying to figure you out," I tell him as I hold a beer out to him in the living room.

He raises his eyebrows.

"You tried to distract me that night you walked me to my car." I push the beer into his hand and he takes it hesitantly. "You knew what he was doing. He was with her?"

He clunks the bottle down on the coffee table without taking a sip. "I didn't want you to... get hurt."

"You were an accomplice."

"I was protecting you that night. Not him."

"What else do you know?"

He tilts his head with a look that says, caution.

"You know more."

His shoulders droop, his face too. He rubs his eyes.

"Tell me."

"Bella." He looks up from his hands. "I can't. Tell you."

"Why not? I know you're his friend and you're going to be on his side, but please, just tell me what you know. Just, after everything, put my feelings first."

"I'm not on his side."

I breathe out a "thank you" and sit on the table next to his drink.

"One of them was..." He takes my hand. It's shaking. He kneels in front of me. "Bella, One was... One's Rose."

I swallow, but it's difficult. I practically gag on her name. "Rose? Rose from work, Rose?"

I've_ hugged_ her. Recently. I've confided in her about things, about Emmett. When did they meet? I think back. The Christmas party. I introduced them. They smiled at each other. A lot.

I shoot to my feet.

Edward reaches to put his arm around me but I push him away, push him toward the door. He won't leave. He stands strong. And, oh god, I can't stop it. I'm crying.

"Fuck," I say. "No."

He brings my head to his shoulder but all I feel is bone meeting bone. I push him away again and kick him out successfully this time, closing the door behind him.

I lie on my side on the carpet in the space where the sofa used to be. The front door opens and closes—Edward's shadow.

No sound as he steps closer, staring. He moves as if he's approaching a wild animal.

"I never knew my husband."

He lies down behind me.

"How can someone I counted on so much..."

He slips one arm under me, the other over me, and rests his forehead on my shoulder blade. I clasp one of his hands, wrapping mine around his fingers, and I relax into him. It's been so long since I've been held like this. I didn't realize how much I needed it. A heavy sigh comes through his nose and heats my skin through my tee. Tears soak my cheeks.

"Your girlfriend would hate this."

"Who?" His head no longer against my shoulder, I feel him rise up behind me.

"Kate."

"I'm not attached."

"Is she?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

He lowers himself again and we lie still until we fall asleep, his humid breath on my back.

I'm seated on the coffee table, across from Edward, looking down at him when he wakes. Our eyes meet. He blinks.

"I have to get out of this town."

He sits up.

"It's too small for all my problems. They don't fit."

He doesn't say anything.

"This place has built a lot of equity. I could sell it, move anywhere, just me. Start all over. I've never done that before, start over." Never had to or wanted to before.

"Don't let them run you out of town." His voice is rough with sleep.

"Maybe it isn't just them. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm ready. To grow up. To be me. I'm almost thirty. I should be ready. Don't you think?"

"I think..." he rubs circles on his raised knee, palm over denim, watching his hand as if he isn't the one moving it. He lifts his gaze, stares into me for a few seconds. It's a weird feeling, the way he's looking at me, like he's contemplating my heart or my soul, trying to see how deep in there he can get. I adjust my position on the table because the way he's looking at me gives me no choice but to move. "You should do what you have to."

I pick up his fingers which are still curved over his knees and I squeeze them. "Why weren't you ever this nice to me before? Feel sorry for me now?" Guilty, maybe. For covering for Emmett. Or for not telling me anything sooner.

His gaze drops to our connected hands. "No, I was—I was an asshole."

I pull my hand away, unable to argue with that. He may not be an asshole now, but he was back then. I must have thought that about him a hundred times.

"Are you the reason he didn't beg me to take him back?"

"All along, Bella, you have to know, I was telling him not to do that to you. When you found out and left him, I made him admit to himself that since he hadn't stopped yet, he might never stop. I asked him if he really wanted to put you through that. He knew how hurt you were and I suggested he make this as easy on you as possible."

...

I'm in the office sitting at my desk, just getting off the phone with a folk singer's manager-slash-wife, when Rose walks in. She waves and heads over to the other desk, taps a key to get the laptop screen fired up, then taps some more keys. She's leaning over, resting one hand on the desk, her hair and blouse hanging low.

"I know about you and Emmett."

Her cherub-like face snaps toward me.

She straightens up. "It was just once."

"Oh, just _once_. Okay. That makes it okay then. See, I thought it was twice, but now that I know you slept with my husband only one time, well, why don't you come on over for dinner?"

She opens her mouth but I interrupt before she can get a word out.

"I don't want your fake apology, or any fake smiles, or anything fake. I'll talk to you when I have to, for the job, but other than that, we don't know each other." I think of that last phrase and how true it is.

I pick up the phone to dial my next number, the air in the office like glass.

...

Jess shows up at my house with a big shipping box in her arms and sets it too carefully on my floor. I eye her with a squint.

"Mom and Dad say you're not returning their calls."

"I haven't been returning any calls."

"Yeah, I got that memo. But they're worried about you. They're even talking to each other about it. You hear me? They're talking. Not yelling. That's how bad it is."

"How do you know?"

"Because _I_ return their calls." She raises one eyebrow.

I promise her I'll call.

She kneels down, opens the flaps of the box, and pulls a kitten out, black with white paws. She holds it up to me.

It fits in the palms of my hands. Its eyes are closed.

"What's this?"

She's reaching into the box again and pulls out a food and water dish, a tiny pillow.

"What's _this_?" I repeat, harsher.

"Your new kitten."

She lugs a litter box out and starts filling it right in my living room. It's scented, floral or something.

"You can't just give someone a cat."

"I didn't. It's a kitten. You should name him Boots."

"It comes with responsibility. I have a job. How can I take care of a kitten?"

"They can take care of themselves, you know? They're not like dogs. You can leave all day, ignore the cat and come back and the cat will be perfectly fine. Probably sleeping."

"I don't want a cat. Take him back where you got him."

"I can't _take him back_." She says it like I've asked her to slaughter it. "I rescued him. Just keep him for two days. If you still hate him after that, I'll keep him."

"I don't hate him." I wonder if he really is a him. As I'm checking I hear my front door close. She's left me here. With a cat. I have a litter box that smells like unnatural flowers in my living room.

I lay the cat down on the tiny pillow at my feet. It curls up and rests its chin on its back paw—its back boot. I pet him. I've never felt anything softer. My hand is bigger than his whole body.

"Hi," I say and sit down next to him.

The next evening when I return from work, my keys clanging into the bowl on the console table, just like Jessica said, Boots is sleeping right under that table. I pick him up, carry him to the living room and lay him on my lap as I sit on the cushion I now use in place of a sofa. I tickle the top of his paw. He mews. I mew back.

"Sisters," I tell him. Over by the bookshelf I spot a small, dark, uneven ring in the carpet and I'm moving the cat aside and muttering. "Take care of himself." I scrub the carpet and spend the rest of the evening putting the cat in the litter box every thirty minutes. When I go to bed, I move the litter box next to where Boots sleeps. In the morning I move the litter box into the bathroom and close Boots in there with it. I say a little prayer to the litter box gods. "Just until you learn," I say before I close the door.

The next evening Jessica asks me how it's going with Boots. She just assumes I kept that name. I show her where he peed in four different spots on the carpet that are no longer visible. I don't tell her about how I laid him down on my pillow last night.

"So, you want me to take him off your hands?"

I'm reminded of William Black at work and how, after his series of strokes, he was moved to a new wing, where he'd be better cared for and where his little Jack Russell couldn't follow. His neighbor offered to take care of the dog until William came back. That's what she said, "Until William comes back." I didn't have the heart to tell her he wouldn't be coming back, not to that room. He needed the care. William kept asking about his dog. "Where's Benny?" he'd ask. "Where's Benny?" He'd even call the dog, whistle, and pat the side of his bed.

"He's in good hands," I said. "You'll see him soon." Whenever I get the chance, I wheel him down to go visit Benny.

Jessica can see it all over my face. A smile spreads across hers. "You're welcome."

...

I'm wheeling William down to his old wing when I spot Edward at the front desk and make a detour.

"Edward?"

"What are you doing?" he asks as if that's the relevant question.

"Taking Mr. Black to see Benny."

"Mr. Black?" He shakes William's hand. "I'm Edward Cullen. Mind if I push you?"

"Oh, I don't mind none. Long as we get there."

"Let's go see Benny." Edward takes over the pushing and I point the way, stealing a glance at him, then looking ahead again.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I want to take you to dinner."

"What, tonight?"

"Yeah."

"You couldn't have called me on the phone to ask me?"

"I could have."

I hear the smile in his voice.

The casual Greek diner with its mere seven tables only offers five entrees on the menu but about a million desserts.

After dinner we take our gelato to go and stroll through the arboretum, the moon slung low and orange, glowing like a huge lit-up potato chip. A vagrant grumbles by, hunched over, his big backpack appearing too heavy for him to hold up straight.

Edward and I toss our paper cups in a nearby trashcan and continue our walk.

"I used to come here a lot when I was in school," I say. "I liked feeding the ducks. If you watch them long enough, they become the most adorable creatures."

Edward looks at me when I talk to him. He's taller than Emmett, but he doesn't dwarf me the way Emmett had. I disappeared next to Emmett. Next to Edward I feel... present.

He sits on the next bench he spies and I follow. We peer out into the night, the dark shadows between the trees, no sign of a town anywhere. He kicks my foot with his. I kick him back and turn toward him. He smiles softly, all in grays. Night smiles. Close like this and with the emphasis of shadows, I notice how one side of his mouth lifts first and higher than the other. I return the smile, then look down. This is... completely different from anything I've ever known with Edward.

I pull the cuffs of my sweater into my fists and am reminded of all the times I've seen Lauren do this—her tell of shyness and insecurity—and how I'd tug her sleeves out of her hands. I let go of my own sleeves and push them up a little.

Edward lays his arm across the top of the bench behind me and I lean back, and it's almost like he has his arm around me. Almost.

I don't know why I'm fantasizing about him putting his arm around me, but I am, and I'm thinking about leaning into his side. I could do it. It wouldn't be that different from the night he held me on my floor. But it's a different time now, a different moment. I scoot myself a touch farther away from him on the bench.

"What do you do?" I ask. "Aside from investing. It's something to do with produce."

"I sell and distribute produce from local farms to restaurants and grocery stores."

He lists restaurants and stores, some whose names I recognize, others I don't.

"How'd you get into that?"

"It was my dad's business. Funny, I studied law, did nothing with that. I wanted to, though. When my dad died, his business was just there, needing someone to take the reins, and easy, stress-free, pretty much. And I do okay, with money. Not hurting. I guess I am lazy, like Kate told you."

I remember when his dad died. Emmett had gone to the funeral; I hadn't. I didn't think Edward would want me there.

"Nothing wrong with avoiding stress when you can."

He squeezes my shoulder a few times and it feels good. I wish he'd continue but he stops, moves his arm off the back of the bench, hands now in his own lap like a kindergartener. I find myself reaching to pull my sleeves over my wrists again and sit on my fingers instead.

"Edward, why didn't you tell me about Emmett?"

I don't know how to reconcile this man who's been so kind, generous with his time, here when I need him, with the one who kept my husband's secrets when he committed adultery time and again.

"Because how can you tell someone something like that? And you?" He gestures at me with an up and down wave of his arm.

"Easy. You say, 'Bella, your husband is cheating scum.'"

"I threatened him. I threatened the hell out of him. He had excuses. He said he was done with it. I tried to get him to tell you and just fucking stop. I was working on that."

"But if you hadn't distracted me that night. If you'd let me look for him, I would've found out."

"You did find out that night."

"Because I _smelled_ her on his fingers." My stomach convulses.

Maybe his does, too; he cringes.

"Could anything be worse?"

"Seeing it?" he asks. "In a bar?"

"I don't know. It's hard to imagine anything worse than the way I found out."

"I wanted to tell you. I wanted _him_ to tell you."

And here we are again, the conversation rounding a circle.

"Let's walk." I stand up, pulling my sweater tight around my body. This may stem from the same insecurity of pulling my sleeves over my hands but I don't care. Let this be my shield if I need one.

Every once in a while Edward pinches me, my side, my shoulder, my elbow, but he keeps his eyes straight ahead. I jump out of the way and he still gets me. I laugh.

"What?" he asks like he has no idea.

"You."

"Hey," he says, stopping as we near the street, headlights brightening and fading. "I'm sorry, Bella. About everything."

At home, I let him walk me to the door.

"Tonight wasn't so bad," I say, letting us in.

"Did you expect it to be bad?"

"I don't know what I expected. Expectations mean nothing anyway. I know that better than anyone."

I drop my keys to the bowl on the console and look down for Boots.

"Bella?"

I turn and Edward's right there—his eyes. He doesn't say anything so I say, "Yeah?"

His gaze isn't leaving mine, his face centimeters away. When he speaks, his breath wafts over my lips. "Are you still thinking about moving?" He runs his thumb along my jaw.

"Sometimes." I close my eyes, feeling his touch rise from my jaw to my cheek, the tips of his fingers. "A lot of the time, but not always." It's more breath coming out of my mouth than voice.

His fingers travel down the side of my throat and it's as if his touch is under my skin, as if _he's_ under my skin. I'm more focused on what his fingers are doing than what he's saying. But what he's saying is a quiet, "I don't want you to leave."

His lips touch mine, barely. I press closer until I feel his pull and I follow. I slip my tongue to the tip of his, a slow swirl that rushes through the lowest part of my stomach and brings me up to my tiptoes.

"What are you doing?" I ask, a hand on his shoulder to keep myself steady.

"What are _you_ doing?" I feel the words against my mouth—the tingle, the vibrations, the heat of them.

Our kiss deepens into something we can never come back from. We'll never be the same as we were ten seconds ago. I fiddle with the end of his shirt and lift it, fingers trailing skin. He moves his lips to my neck and I arch back, sliding my hands down his torso. I feel his abs tighten and I find the button on his jeans. I open them, tugging them, and him, closer. He picks me up, lifts me to the console and slides himself between my legs. His mouth on mine, his arms around me, tight. I breathe out a gasp, and he lifts me again.

"Down," I say and my feet meet the ground. I take his hand and guide him up the stairs. I don't dare look back at him until we're in my room.

Edward leans so we're eye to eye, and brushes my face with his knuckles. Finger and thumb to my chin, he tilts my face up and presses his lips to mine. He lingers there, warm breath entering me, filling me with a particular need. A different kind of need than his gentle kisses are offering me. The soft swipe of his tongue isn't enough. He slides his mouth down my neck, more breath than lips, and goosebumps climb my body.

I turn to find his mouth and kiss him hard. I bite his bottom lip. "Don't be sweet," I say.

He pulls away, stands upright, and peers down at me with a quizzical tightening between his brows. I shake my head and almost whisper, but my voice is just forceful enough to sound like I mean it. "Not sweet." And I do mean it.

In seconds his shirt is on the floor. My gaze rests on his stomach, flat and smooth. I swallow. I'm almost touching him when he takes my elbows, tugs me to him, and smashes his chest to mine, his mouth to mine, his tongue to mine. It's like he was waiting to hear what I'd just said. He doesn't stop and his kisses hurt, and when he yanks my shirt over my head and lifts me by my waist to deposit me on the bed, that hurts too. A kind of pain that sticks around for a while so that when he slides down to my chest, I still feel him on my mouth, and when he grips my thighs, I still feel his fingers at my waist, the indents they made there. I feel him where he is and where he isn't and where he just was.

My breath comes out in huffs as I pull him closer, search between us for the button of his jeans. The jeans are still open. I'd forgotten. I slip my hand inside, caress over his boxers, and his mouth on mine is as firm as ever, pushing my head into the pillow. I'm stroking, underneath his boxers now, my hand wrapped around him.

"God," he says, pushing into my hand like he can't help himself. He's so hard I think it might be painful for him.

He pulls back to take his pants and boxers off, followed by my jeans. My body's searing like I've been singed by him.

I want to call his name, to hurry him along, but I say nothing. Neither of us speak. His eyes are in a squint, a glare of need, as he looks at me the second before he's all over me again.

Teeth under my breast, followed by his tongue. It satiates and incites at once. I take his cheeks in my hands and guide him up to my face. His eyes and hair and breathing are wild, every inhale a near-rasp. I give him a soft, slow kiss and he follows my lead, relaxing his touch.

"Bella," he whispers. "What-what-what do you want?"

"I don't know." I just want him in this moment, whatever he wants to give me and however he wants to deliver it. He lands somewhere between slow and gentle and rough and fast. He holds behind my neck with one hand, the other at my hip as he kisses me and pulls me against him.

Kissing his way down my body, he slips my panties off. Fingers between my legs followed by lips, tongue. I reach back for the metal post of my headboard and grasp it, cool in my palm. After making his way back to my mouth, he sits up and brings me to his lap, wrapping my legs behind him and his arms around me. He looks into my eyes, lifts me and slips me over him.

He moves me against him at a slow pace and I feel every slide, and every slide brings a near-whimper out of me, a quiver up my spine. Our bodies speed up, a rhythm that melds into ours. Ours.

I kiss his jaw and along his damp neck. He smells like sweat and nature, like the arboretum might smell if it had skin.

He finds my breasts with his mouth, one then the next, and back again.

With a moan I drop my face to his shoulder for a second and he makes quiet, struggling noises that shoot up my stomach to my chest. His eyes are squeezed tight. I guide his face back to my breast because that's all I need and I'm done for. He takes my nipple between his lips, tugs, and I lose myself. I don't even know when he finishes because I'm on some other plane.

And then we're flat on our backs, only our outstretched hands touching. Our breathing settles into almost normal. My skin, everywhere, is hot and damp with sweat. He yanks some tissues out of the box on Emmett's old nightstand. He hands me one. Cleaned up, he pulls me under the sheets, tucking my sticky back into his sticky front. We don't say anything.

He kisses my shoulder and back.

Seconds after Emmett and I first made love, I'd asked him what size shoe he wore.

"Why?" he asked.

"I want to see if it's true what they say about shoe size and, you know." I glanced down.

"It's hand size." He lifted his hand to mine, palm to palm, his monstering mine.

"Is it true?" he asked.

"Nope."

He laughed. "Thanks."

I laughed, too. I laughed so much with him.

I'm not laughing now.

I push Edward's hands off me and scoot away from him.

"My marriage is officially over."

"This makes it officially over?"

"Isn't that what the rebound thing means? I've rebounded, right? You don't have to feel bad for me anymore. I can move on. I am moving on. Your job is done."

"My job?"

"Yeah, your 'fix Bella because I'm partially at fault' job. I'm fixed. Everything is working just fine."

"What is this?"

"I'm talking."

"This isn't you."

"Who is it?"

"Not you."

"Maybe it's the new me." But forget that. It's not the new me. It's just me.

"How can you judge who I am? You never even cared about me until _after_ my marriage with your friend ended. And what kind of person are you, anyway, who would sleep with his best friend's wife? Was I everything he told you I was?"

He gets off the bed, and just like the mattress salesman promised, I don't feel the movement.

"Thirty seconds ago your marriage was officially over." He steps into his jeans. "Now you're his wife?" He pulls his shirt over his head. "And you're worried about Emmett's feelings in this? This was a mistake."

"Perfect. He married me, regretted it. You slept with me and regret it. Except you and I don't have any ties. Lucky you. You're off the hook."

Halfway through the doorway he turns around, his fingers curved around the door jamb. "I do have a regret, Bella. And it eats at me."

"Right."

"Not this."

I sit up straighter and pull the comforter over my chest.

"That night in August in '07 at Denali. Emmett and I saw you at the exact same time. You were damn beautiful at the bar with that blue light behind you and drinking this blue drink that made you pretty much gag after every sip. He was the one with the balls to approach you. You smiled at him. I left."

My stomach tightens. I'd ordered that drink because Leah and I had been talking about sweet blue drinks. I'd asked for something blue. The bartender warned me it probably wasn't what I thought it would be. He'd been right. I hated it. But I was determined to finish it.

Staring at Edward, I clutch the sheet at my chest, at my heart.

"For the last five years I kept leaving and staying away. _Resisting._ I didn't resist tonight. Maybe that was a mistake, but it's not a regret. Not my regret. I never want to forget it." His eyes shift away and come back to me. "And I guess I'm leaving again because everything about you is asking me to right now."

He walks out.

My heart is beating faster and my breathing more shallow than the moment I peeled away from his skin and fell to my back. He's cared about me. All this time.

I listen to his footsteps as he heads down the stairs.

My heart picks up more speed.

What did I just do?

The front door creaks open.

Go after him, I think. But what do I say? _What do I say?_

The bang of the door.

I sweep my hand across the bed where Edward was lying. The bed is flat, Edward already forgotten by the mattress. I scoot over and lie on that side. The sheet's still warm.

He remembered the night and the place. And my drink.

Kicking my foot at the arboretum. How he says my name, like he's out of breath by the end of it. Playful pinches. His stares. The softest, slowest kisses, like he was savoring me.

He made me laugh, too. He made me smile when I thought I couldn't. And when I really couldn't smile, he held me all night long.

_I don't want you to leave_, he said.

"I'm sorry," I say into the pillow that still smells like him. "I didn't know."

I go downstairs to lock the door and get Boots. Edward's warmth is gone so I sleep in my own and Boots's, his fur like silk on my naked chest.

I don't want to forget tonight, either.

...

Summer lazes into fall, the temperature reaching ninety in October.

On my next day off, I dust off my old bike and ride it around town. No destination, just ride. The way I used to before I married Emmett. I was a person before him. I can be a person after as well.

I have to fill up the air in my tires twice before I'm through. I need new tires.

...

Of course this was bound to happen. It's a small town and we both love the Co-op. I'm sure I spotted him first and he hasn't seen me yet, and I'm tempted to back out of the store, hide around the corner until he leaves. I square my shoulders, pushing my cart forward. I am not hiding from Emmett.

He finds me, eyes widening, mouth dropping. "Bella."

We stare at each other. I've never seen him with a beard before. Behind him, Edward walks up, and he's the one who has me running. I leave my cart where it is, turn and head straight for the exit. It doesn't seem like logic, Edward was Emmett's friend first and always, but I feel betrayed.

Tears pool. I fish for my keys in my bag, shake it to rattle them. Where are they?

"Bella? Bella." A firm hand on my arm turns me around. Edward's there, eyebrows pulled together. My tears have leaked and there's no hiding them.

My hands are shaking, my shoulders. My breath, too.

He gathers me into his arms like I'm a rag doll. "I'm sorry." He has me tight, my face pressed into his shoulder where I can barely breathe.

But what's he sorry for, really? He's just here with his friend. Completely normal. I'm the one. My reaction. Not normal.

"I wish it wasn't this way," I say, my voice muffled and quaking with tears. I wish they weren't friends. I wish Edward hadn't been there the entire time Emmett was fooling around. I wish Edward and I had just met. Or better yet, that Edward was the one who had the balls enough to approach me that night at Denali.

"I've been living the wrong life."

"Me too," he says, and that brings my arms around his waist, and I'm clinging to him, but maybe, I think, we're clinging to each other.

We let go little by little until the last thing I'm holding are the sides of his shirt in my fists. Emmett's standing at the entrance of the store, hands in his pockets, watching us.

"I'll call you," Edward says and runs his lips across my cheek. He heads back to Emmett and I can't hear them, but whatever words they're exchanging are far from friendly.

I've forgotten what I've come here for and can't be bothered to think about it so I get in my car, take a few breaths and a few moments to get myself together before pulling out of my parking space. Edward's at the parking lot exit, standing on the sidewalk, his hand raised in a wave. My heart jumps and my breath catches.

I stop the car and slide down the passenger side window. He leans in. "I came here with him." He aims a thumb over his shoulder. "I want to leave with you." His eyebrows arch in question.

I unlock the door. He climbs in. We go by his house first to pick up his car. He lives in a small two story bungalow downtown, a short walk from the Farmer's market.

I wait for him to start up and he follows me home.

"Bella, at the store..." he says as I'm rooting through the fridge looking for something that will pass for dinner. I remember why I'd gone to the Co-op. For everything. I take out cold cuts and bread.

"I get it. Bros before hos." I try to make light of it. I just got through crying, don't want to start up again.

He laughs. "No," he says, his laugh dangling from it.

His laughter finds my stomach, affecting me as though it's my own.

I've pulled out plates and he's slapping mayo on the bread while I slice cheese.

"I told him about you."

"What about me?" I lay the cheese across the bread, followed by turkey.

"About my... feelings."

I stop. "You told him you had a crush on me?"

"It wasn't a crush."

"What was it, love?"

"Come on. That's not what I'm saying. But it was more substantial than a crush. Like it could be that other thing. If it had the chance."

"That other thing? You're thirty-one years old and you can't say 'love?'"

"I can say 'love.' Just said it." He stares at me for a few beats.

We move like drones to the table to start in on our sandwiches, though I've lost my appetite.

"Are you - do you still want to move?"

"You're asking me that after today, with Emmett? This town's so small."

"So you said. Too small." He's not eating either. "You need time, but if you move away, that's more than time. That's distance. That's not putting the chance out there to become..."

"Anything." I finish for him. I don't want to make him say love just to prove that he can.

He turns in his chair to face me completely, his knees against my thigh. "Do you want... something here?"

I lift my hand to his chest, feel his every breath and heartbeat under my palm.

"All you have to do is say the word."

"It isn't that simple. Not how things are. Am I supposed to ask you not to hang out with your best friend anymore? Am I supposed to put up with seeing him with you? God, Edward, the reminders." I'm already blinking back tears.

"I know." He reaches up, pushes aside a tear with his thumb and I watch his throat as he swallows hard.

"Can't you just go back to being rude to me?"

There they are now in his eyes, too. Tears, hanging on to the surface, a barrier about to collapse, and my heart unfolds, reaching every limb, every fingertip, climbs up and blocks my windpipe. I try to swallow, put my heart back in its place. It doesn't budge. I know he has feelings for me because he's said as much, but I haven't known how deep they go until just now. Those tears.

"Does your chest feel like mine?"

He nods without even asking me how mine feels. He takes my hand and kisses it. "I'm sorry I came off as rude. Every time you spoke, my ears honed in, and when you walked into a room, if I let myself look at you, it wouldn't be easy to look away and I was sure I'd be caught. By you or someone else."

I rest my hand against his jaw, my fingertips light on his cheek. I lean in to kiss him. He draws in a breath, returns the kiss.

Hands on my shoulders, he pulls back. "Are we doing this, Bella? With ties?"

"I don't know."

"I need that with you. It's you." He sweeps hair behind my ear, his fingers drifting down my neck. "Last time when... after we..." He stops himself.

"I wish things were different," I say again.

He nods.

"Stay tonight anyway?"

We sleep in my bed, his chest to my back, one arm over me, his hand resting just under my breast, and my hand on the cat. Edward doesn't try anything because he needs those ties. Ties I can't give him. And that's what's so sad. I could give those ties to someone else if I wanted to, but not Edward. Because of who he was and who he is to Emmett.

In my bed, all night, he's resisting again. And so am I.

When he leaves in the morning, he turns after opening the front door, the early chill rushing in. "Someday," he says, a one word promise, nodding after, like he knows he'll keep it.

He leans in and kisses me high up on my cheekbone near the top of my ear and he lets his lips linger, and with my eyes closed, I let him let his lips linger for as long as he wants.

He backs away, leaving my cheek hot and cold at the same time. He stares into my eyes, says, "Bye, Bella," and backs out, watching me as he closes the door, his eyes still on mine until harsh wood closes between us. Tears roll down my face and I let them. Long after he's gone, he really isn't. He's still here. With me. And it feels as warm as my tears.

...

My divorce is final on a Monday.

Divorce is final, I think. Fitting. They are some powerful papers that can obliterate something that once encompassed two whole lives—two pasts and two futures. You sign the papers and poof, you have a new title: Divorcee.

_Divorcee_. Is a name for it really necessary?

I want to take the day off work, but that's impossible.

Seeing Rose is hell. I used to avoid her eyes as we passed each other but at least I'd keep my head up. Now, I find myself looking down. I hate that I do that. She doesn't deserve to hold that kind of power over me. I want to go back to keeping my head up.

Again I find myself facing Emmett at the Co-op. I once loved that we worked the same hours, loved shopping here together.

Purple and green mark his cheek, the tail end of a black eye. "What happened?"

"Your boyfriend."

"Edward?"

"In the parking lot." He nods his chin toward the big windows.

"He's not my boyfriend."

"You rejected him?" He looks relieved and I'm repulsed by that. My depriving myself of what I want has given him relief.

I think about how I no longer keep my head up around Rose, and why? Because I feel like I've come out behind everyone in this disaster. I'm neglecting my needs because I'm afraid. Afraid of Emmett? But Emmett doesn't want to see me with Edward any more than I want to see Edward with him. Emmett would avoid us. I'd only see the two of them together by accident, and that only happened once in three months. And this, only the second time I've run into Emmett, both times at the Co-op.

"You didn't hit him back."

"For caring about you more than me? Who can blame him?"

So he can be decent. At least a fraction of the man I thought he was.

"You got your mom and Alice out of this."

"What?"

"The divorce."

"You got the house."

"You got my dignity."

He flinches, steps back, almost hitting the woman reaching for apples behind him.

"I want the Co-op. I want to be free to come here without worrying about seeing you."

The woman with the apples sneaks a glance our way.

"You want me to stop coming here?"

"You're quick."

"You want the whole town, too?"

Now that he mentions it. I shrug a shoulder.

"All right," he says, "but I get Whole Foods."

I agree and turn away, heading down the bread aisle. I check behind me. Emmett's nearing the exit. He's left his cart, partially full, behind.

I haven't spoken to Edward in a week, but today I call him. "Meet me at our bench at eight?"

He doesn't ask me which bench is ours. We've only ever shared one bench.

...

Facing him in front of our bench, I kick my foot forward, hit the toe of his shoe with the toe of mine. He looks as serious as he did the night he took me to my childhood home those months ago.

"Let's try this," I say. "Us. With ties."

He doesn't budge. The moon is higher in the sky than last time we were here. It's streaming over us, silver light.

He's quiet for too long. My heart pounds, picking up speed with every passing second.

"Edward, what are you thinking?"

He steps forward, reaching out for me. I look at his eyes, cast down. He's watching his hand as he takes hold of my waist. "We should come here sometime when the adorable ducks are awake." His eyes raise to mine.

"You remembered."

He brings my hand to his prickly cheek, turns and kisses my wrist, and I could just about tear up at that, my eyes stinging. Then he pulls my arm around his waist, moving in as close as possible. Closer still, his lips meet mine, and he squeezes me tight.

When we separate, he shimmies a pocketknife out of the front pocket of his jeans and slides the blade open. From the end of his sleeve he cuts a loose thread.

"Give me your hand."

I do and he ties the thread around my pinky. His breath trembles. "That okay?"

"It only makes sense if you have one, too."

He smiles and with a long exhale searches for a thread on my shirt, his grin hanging on. They're all too short so he plays with one and tugs at it, neverminding the bunching of the fabric he's causing. After fumbling with it some because his hands are too big, he cuts the thread free and offers it to me. I barely feel it in my palm when I take it from him. The wind could snatch it so easily if I'm not careful.

He holds his hand out, reminding me of my wedding day. I give a tiny shake of my head and take breaths to calm my hammering heart. Wiping perspiration from the back of my neck, I remind myself this isn't an engagement. It's only a symbol of hope.

Even though he'd tied mine in a knot, I tie his in a bow and he laughs, flicking at it with his finger.

"What's this?"

"My tie."

He smiles wider, more handsome than ever. "I like it."

We stand here, in our streak of silver light with our hands locked together and our ties on our pinkies, looking at each other, and in one another's eyes possibilities can be seen. We both see them. I'm sure of it.

I know I do.


End file.
